


Relapse and Refusal

by Inactive Account (sassybleu)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Drug Use, F/M, Johnlock (implied), M/M, Past Drug Use, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 07:28:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1736216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassybleu/pseuds/Inactive%20Account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Reichenbach, Sherlock relapses, John comes in and has an inner monologue. </p><p> </p><p>Long, slender, pale fingers gripped the elastic, tightening it around his upper arm. The syringe lay on the table in front of him. Filled with the exact amount of liquid needed to keep his high going for a set number of hours. He reaches out and lifts the syringe to his arm. Finding a vein, he sinks the syringe into the pale exterior skin of his arm, feeling the small prick of pain as it pierces the skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relapse and Refusal

Long, slender, pale fingers gripped the elastic, tightening it around his upper arm. The syringe lay on the table in front of him. Filled with the exact amount of liquid needed to keep his high going for a set number of hours. He reaches out and lifts the syringe to his arm. Finding a vein, he sinks the syringe into the pale exterior skin of his arm, feeling the small prick of pain as it pierces the skin.

 _It’s not too late._ He thinks. _I could pull the needle before I push the plunger. I could keep John’s image of me. I don’t have to become the man he doesn’t want me to be._

But from somewhere else in his mind, there’s a voice saying,

 **But John isn’t here. John’s with his _wife_. He’s not coming back. If not him, who do you have to be _good_ for? You were fine last time, remember? Before you’d even met John. John slowed your mind down, and sped it up. Both of which are things this syringe can do for you. Much easier to rely on a needle than to rely on a man that’s not even present isn’t it**?

 Both voices battling, each escalating to an overbearing echo that reverberates off the walls of his skull. The plunger meets the needle tip, the liquid travels his bloodstream, and the voices start to whisper. 

Bliss, ignorance, whatever one chooses to call it. It’s heaven. The constant screaming reduced down to a gentle whisper in the back of his mind. The connections start forming, making more sense in the tranquility of his mind. The phone, what was it about the phone? Ah, yes, ringing. That means someone’s calling. John, a picture of John, on the screen. “Oh!” He says as he picks up the phone, and answers,

“Hello, I'm Sherlock Holmes.”

              “Sherlock? Why are you answering like that?”

“Ah John, hello. I’m currently busy. Please call someone else if you’ve got an issue. Terribly busy.”

              “Sherlock, what the bloody hell is going on?” After a minute of silence,

“It’s so quiet John. Your whisper echoes…” Sherlock whispered the last part, grinning to himself.

              “Sherlock? Sherlock are you home? Stay at the flat, I’ll be there soon.” John hung up, grabbed his coat, and caught a cab off to Baker Street.

\----------

Using his key, John quickly entered the flat and walked up the steps, he saw the door cracked, and the lights in the flat off. Through the pale moonlight coming in through the window, he could make out a slender body lying on the couch. He breathed a sigh of relief and continued into the flat. Standing to the side of Sherlock, John could see his face, poorly illuminated in the moonlight. Hair unruly, mouth pressed into a thin line, and silent tears pouring out the side of his tightly shut eyes. The sight broke his heart. Sherlock Holmes, self-proclaimed sociopath, crying. Why? Who did this to him? How could he make it better? All racing through his mind. John turned around to make tea and he saw it. Sherlock hadn’t bothered to hide it, why would he? John knew the worst about him, he should know if he relapses. He should know what a terrible man he’d become since he left the doctor. He prepared himself for the yelling, he waited for John to slam the door and never look back. But when it didn’t happen, he shifted and looked up John.

\----------

Looking up at him was Sherlock Holmes. Eyes widened in insecurity and self-hatred. Body shrinking in on itself, trying to become a lesser part of the world he’s in. Looking up at him was a broken man who was alone; a man who had sacrificed everything to keep him and his friends safe. Looking up at him was a man that needed help, but could never ask for it, at least not with words; because this, the syringe, the tears, the way he looked up at him, this was his asking. And how could John refuse? How could he refuse the man that saved everyone he could? How could he refuse to help the man who killed for him? How could he refuse the man who endured such pain for him? That’s all John could think, **_How could I refuse?_**

**Author's Note:**

> 4/13/15: Please do not duplicate or post this content elsewhere without consent.


End file.
